


Excuse Me, Witch Hunter Coming Through

by spatialsoloist



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, Witch Hunting, badass Arthur and Eames are badass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spatialsoloist/pseuds/spatialsoloist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches weren’t just warty, cackling hags. They’re heinous, bloodthirsty, cruel, and powerful. Fortunately, Arthur was just as heinous and bloodthirsty. Cruel was a given. Powerful was built on reputation and years of honed instinct. </p>
<p>Arthur also didn’t need a hunting partner, but Eames seemed dead set on changing that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was vaguely inspired by the two minutes of Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters I saw a very long time ago. It figures Arthur would want to work alone and Eames would want to gatecrash the party. 
> 
> There are dogs in this fic! I find animal companions cute. Thank you for reading.
> 
> Song: Breath of Life (Florence + The Machine)

The crack of a shotgun was still ringing in Arthur’s ears as the witch’s head blew up into tiny pieces of brain and blood. He barely closed his mouth in time as he ducked, watching chunks of matter fall with dull splashes into the waters as the headless body on the broomstick crashed noisily into a tree. Ceil, his golden retriever, barked in the direction of Arthur’s so-called savior, who was a figure clad in a heavy travelling cloak while standing knee-deep in the swamp muck. Another dog, a huge husky-terrier-thing, crouched low next to his knees, and the man was toting a shotgun with the muzzle still smoking. The thing looked like a toothpick compared to the man’s bulk, and Arthur couldn’t _believe_ his nerve.

“What the hell, Eames!” he snarled, wiping blood and sweat off his face. “That was my kill!”

Eames grinned and pushed his hood back. “Sorry, darling, I just couldn’t resist! I’m not going to take your gold though, if that’s what you’re so pissed about.”

“You know it’s not about the gold,” Arthur growled, wrenching his boots free from the frozen sludge with an awful squelching sound as he trudged towards body floating in the black waters. Eames followed, and the husky barked loudly as his owner moved. Its beautiful white and black coat was being soiled by the filthy mud.

“Easy, Diablo,” Eames soothed, carding thick fingers through his dog’s hair. The two waded over as Arthur wiped the mess off his face with his jacket sleeve again, glowering down at the witch’s corpse. Her blood was seeping through the cold water, foul-scented and steaming because of its acidic properties. Arthur’s boots were made of the finest dragonskin, though, so he’s spared from getting horrible chemical burns. The dogs, oddly enough, were immune.

“Lovely shot,” Eames hummed, poking the witch’s back with his gun. Arthur scowled.

“What kind of a bullet was that? How did it explode like a firecracker?” he demanded, pulling a short silver dagger from its sheath. Eames winked roguishly, miming zipping his lips. “Trade secret, love, mustn’t tell.”

Scoffing, Arthur leaned down and saved swearing at the other man by sawing off a portion of the puckering skin at the back of the witch’s neck, where spidery tendrils were inked into the still-clammy body. Each Devil’s Spot was unique to a witch, and was proof of each hunter’s kill. Slipping the piece of flesh into a flat leather pouch, Arthur stowed his weapons away and reached for the bottle of holy water at his waist. Uncorking the flask, he shook out several drops onto the body. A second later, the corpse burst into flames.

“Efficient as always,” Eames smirked, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Why are you here?” he asked bluntly, crossing his arms. “I staked a claim on her, Eames, you can’t just go around snatching up kills.”

“C’mon now, Cariphia was giving you quite a bit of trouble,” the older man pointed out. “The real question should be why you’re hunting D-Class witches on your own? They’re not your usual village hag or a small-time sorceress. You could’ve been killed.”

“I was doing fine,” Arthur snapped icily. “And I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business, Mr. Eames.” He wiped his bloody and mud-splattered hands on the cleaner part of his cloak before stomping off out of the swamp and towards higher grounds. There was mud in places where mud should not be in at all and Arthur was dying for a wash.

“I’m only worried,” Eames protested, quick to catch up. “Arthur, dear—”

“Look, Eames,” Arthur hissed, rounding on the taller man. “It’s one o’clock in the morning and I am exhausted out of my mind. I feel slimy and cold and generally disgusting, so I’d like to head back to the inn and at least scrub this filth off my skin before turning in. If you’re so intent on bugging me, can you at least have the decency to do so tomorrow morning? You probably stalked me to the same inn anyway.”

“I’ve never stalked you,” Eames insisted, though his growing smile was giving him away. “We’ve just always happened to run into each other.”

Arthur stifled a groan and settled for shoving Eames away from him instead. “Good night, Mr. Eames,” he shouted irritably, clambering up the slopes of the hills with Ceil bounding along beside him. Dry land was much nicer that the swamp muck.

“And to you, darling,” Eames called, before he and Diablo became a mere speck in the distance.

+

Witch hunting was good business, but undeniably dangerous. It’s never a fair fight when one party had magical powers, but contrary to popular belief, witches don’t have the abilities to say, turn a person into a toad or put a man under hypnosis. They can, however, throw fireballs, for one, or manipulate small animals like snakes. Their blood and spit is acidic. They can bring trees to life and they pack one hell of a punch. Witch hunting demands for the hunter to not only be physically fit but just as bloodthirsty and cruel as their enemies, so it’s definitely not a job for the faint hearted.

Arthur supposed he’s lucky that he got over the imminent fear of the old hags in his childhood. He met his first witch when he was just a scrawny, sickly twelve year old boy. Her name was Skrykes, and she was also the first witch he ever killed, but only after she murdered his entire family, of course. Arthur hardly remembered them; the villagers had burned his home and afterwards, there’d been nothing left but a half-remembered dream of his gentle mother, a soft-spoken father, and an older sister who liked to dote on him. He’d spent the remainder of his teenage years with the local blacksmith, Tomas, until he was old enough to leave the village on his own.

From there, witch hunting just came naturally to him.

Arthur found sanction several villages over and trained with several simple woodsmen in archery, shooting, and knife handling before leaving for the forest. He lived with a band of travelling thieves for another year before heading off to the Holy City; a bustling hub surrounded by a fortress, neigh impenetrable, host of every trade imaginable and every type of character you could hope to find. It was there that Arthur found and joined the Witch Hunter’s guild, built up his reputation, and became one of the best hunters around despite his young age. When he felt ready, Arthur finally placed himself up for hire.

He renamed himself Arthur Skrykes so that he’d never forget what it cost for him to have arrived at this stage of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

“Arthur,” Eames murmured, sliding into the barstool with a kind of grace a man with his bulk should not have been able to achieve. Eames smiled, his light, flirty, I’m-innocent-no-really smile, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Mr. Eames,” he acknowledged, taking a gulp from his tankard. Eames signaled to the bartender for his own mug and took a generous drink from it when it was passed down the counter into his palm.

“How’ve you been?” Eames asked, propping himself up on an elbow.

“Sleeping in,” Arthur replied simply. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t deny a man his drink, now,” Eames chastised, wagging a finger, and laughing when Arthur looked like he wanted to chop the digit off. “I’m here for an honest pint, darling. It was really just a coincidence that I found you here too.”

“Right,” Arthur muttered, finishing the last of his ale. “If that’s the case then I’ll be going now—”

Eames suddenly reached out, resting his large, warm hand on Arthur’s arm. “C’mon, love, indulge me a little, won’t you?” Eames asked, and there was a serious expression on his face as he made the request. Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying hard not to drift towards thoughts such as _Eames’ hand is so fucking warm_ before sighing and sitting back down on the stool. Eames grinned.

“Thank you, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur said immediately.

“What, darling?” Eames chuckled, quirking an eyebrow. “It’s just a pet name, Arthur. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

“There’s plenty more pet names at your disposal,” Arthur dismissed, annoyed. “Pick something else, for Christ’s sake.”

“But I like darling best,” Eames pouted.

“I said it once, Eames, don’t make me repeat myself,” Arthur warned, voice tightening at the edges. Eames must’ve noticed— he’s a hunter, after all, and hunters are sharp people— but he said nothing, wisely choosing to take an extra-large gulp of beer instead. There was a moment of silence between them, the only sound being the faint ambient noise of the few patrons eating and drinking in the background.

“When are you heading back to the guild?” Eames finally asked, tracing the handle of the mug.

“Tomorrow morning,” Arthur said, fingers itching for his pipe.

“Mind if I come with?” Eames prodded; putting on his puppy eyes as he accurately read the twitch in Arthur’s eyebrow as a rejection.

“You are a grown man, Eames. It won’t kill you to take a three-day trip alone back to the Holy City.”

“But you make such good company,” Eames wheedled. “Please, Arthur, I hardly see your pretty face enough as it is.”

“You followed me to Willow Hill three months ago,” Arthur pointed out ruthlessly, fighting the warmth threatening to spread onto his face. “And to Tempest Port a week later. Also, you _conveniently_ appeared at Linkstown too, not to mention—”

“Alright, alright, maybe we work with each other more often than not,” Eames interrupted, wincing. “But think of the dogs, Arthur! They adore each other!”

“How dare you bring the animals in,” Arthur spluttered indignantly, but they both know it’s a lost argument already. The closest thing to a soft spot Arthur had would be for Ceil and Diablo, and Eames shamelessly exploited this fact to convince Arthur to spend time with him.  Three sets of puppy-dog eyes wasn’t something that even Arthur was immune to, apparently.

“Fine,” Arthur gritted out furiously, sliding off the barstool. “Tomorrow morning, at dawn. If you’re late I’m leaving without you.”

“I’ll be there, lovely,” Eames said cheerfully as Arthur exited the bar, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering exactly how someone like Eames wound up in this kind of nasty business.

+

David Amadeus Eames was a name that had always sat at the top of the guild’s list of Witch Hunters for hire, and it gave Arthur plenty to think about. When his own name appeared on the list for the first time after the guild’s monthly recompilation, Eames’ name had been on top. Nearly six months later, after six new lists being nailed up on the bulletin board in the Viking-styled hall, Eames’ name had still constantly remained number one.

This was a rare thing. The reason why the list was revamped every month was because of the nature of Witch Hunting; a hunter could be top of the list one day and be dead in the next. It’s a fast-paced environment where hunters were constantly added and removed without sentimental or attachments. For those who were lucky enough to survive another month’s grueling hunt, their kill counts and classifications of hunted witches were taken into consideration by Father Saito, the no-nonsense, kickass priest of the guild before a whole new list was hashed out. Ranks could rise or fall and depending on one’s monthly haul of kills, it could determine whether a hunter was given the opportunity to hunt one or fifty witches. It’s good pay, but the competition was just as tough as the survival. Fortunately, Arthur had long since discovered that despite their tough exterior, the members of the guild were really quite friendly and welcoming.

But Arthur was very intrigued. He’d asked around about Eames and had received varying stories from the man taking down an entire pack of witches with only a torch in hand and a crucifix in the other to shameless recounts of drunken moments in the city’s local pubs. Eames was fearless. Eames was a great dancer. Eames was every witch’s worst nightmare. Eames could balance three tankards of rum on his head while juggling apples.

And Eames, when Arthur finally met him, was lying shirtless on the bed of the guild’s small infirmary with Dr. Yusuf tending to a massive wound that spilled blood all over the floor in massive pools. Eames was sweating like a dog in heat, his face white as chalk, and there had been a huge chunk of his left thigh torn right out of him. Yusuf was applying the usual potion to knock the patient out before operating on him, and Arthur was stuck in the doorway, holding a basket of supplies Father Saito had asked him to bring down to the doctor just moments ago. Now, Arthur knew why.

“Just leave them on the counter,” Yusuf said quickly, hands moving quickly and efficiently as he handled complicated silver instruments. Arthur nodded, hurriedly dropping the basket off before turning to leave the infirmary. However, before he did, a breathless voice called out, “Arthur.”

Arthur turned, surprised, and it was Eames who called him. The hunter was looking at him upside down from his position on the bed, but despite the obvious pain the man had been in he still managed to grin widely once he saw that he’d caught Arthur’s attention.

“You’ve got a lovely arse, darling,” Eames informed Arthur brightly before passing out cold from Yusuf’s drug, leaving Arthur standing in the doorway with his jaw hanging open. Yusuf shrugged helplessly and mouthed ‘he’s like that’ before starting on the wound.

Arthur still had no idea how someone like Eames could ever be the top hunter in a place like the guild.


	3. Chapter 3

Morthmount was a place of the North, and was just as chilly in the mornings and evenings as any other Northern village might be. It was a cluster of dark, tethering buildings built vertically into the sky, and none of them looked stable. Variations of meat shops, trapping posts and fur traders held their business in this area, and it was the murders of several animal hunters that alerted the villagers of a witch in the area. Arthur wasn’t particularly fond of the cold in Morthmount, but he made it a goal to take as many different jobs as he could all over the old regions of Europe and establish his name in as many places as possible. It didn’t hurt to collect a few favours and be viewed in a good light every now and then too. Arthur liked to plan ahead.

Which was the main reason why he didn’t understand Eames most of the time. Eames, who could laze about the guild for a month or five but suddenly leap on a boat for a four-day trip to hunt a witch in Shelorshores, the sea-islands scattered near the South. He could waltz into any forest without a care in the world and take down a witch if he felt like it. He could, for reasons best known to himself, be on a job somewhere in the mountains and still catch up to Arthur as he headed Eastbound to the farming villages. Eames loved following Arthur around, and Arthur really didn’t know why. Or how to stop him, for that matter. But sometimes— he’d never admit this— Arthur liked the other hunter’s company too.

Ceil nudged Arthur’s hand, his wet nose bumping against the fingers peeking out from the meshed fingerless gloves. Arthur scratched the retriever behind the ears and offered a strip of dried meat for his dog, which Ceil gobbled up happily, tail thrashing back and forth. Arthur exhaled and let a plume of smoke from his pipe trail into the morning sky. It was still dark because of winter, but there was a blazing bonfire burning day and night in the center of the village. The houses were bathed in a warm, orange glow that managed to soften their angular, prickly shapes minutely.

Ceil suddenly barked, and Arthur turned to see Eames stagger out of the inn, Diablo dashing across the snow to them. The older man was bundled in his heinous paisley-patterned travelling cloak and had his rucksack slung over one shoulder, shotgun draped over the other. Eames was a firm non-believer of hats, saying that it reduced his hearing. Arthur was a firm believer in preventing frostbites.

“Morning, love,” Eames said through chattering teeth even though he’s bundled up to his neck. “Nice day, eh?”

“Shut up and start walking, Mr. Eames,” Arthur smirked, pulling his furred cap down over his ears. He ran a hand through Diablo’s fur before securing his sack on his own back and picked up his rifle. The village had a path that led into the thinner part of the forest until it split into two ways: one well-used hunting trail leading further north and a narrow, branch-obscured track directing towards Central State, back to the Holy City. Judging from the general unkemptness of the path it was obvious that no visitors came up to Morthmount often.

“Thus concludes another tale of our journeys, Arthur,” Eames sighed dramatically, plowing through the knee-deep snow. “Let it be known that dragonskin does not necessarily provide warmth like their former winged and fanged wearers.”

“Dragons are reptiles, what did you expect?” Arthur demanded, keeping close. “They’re cold blooded, which means their body temperatures adjust according to their environment, so therefore—”

“Dear God, Arthur,” Eames groaned, pressing a hand over his stubble-speckled face. “Keep the scholar out of our conversations for a few more minutes, yeah? The sun’s hardly up and I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“So long as your instincts are still sharp I couldn’t care less if you ran into a tree or not,” Arthur snorted. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Pfft,” Eames snickered. “Did you just make a pun, Arthur? Stiff, stick-in-the-mud Arthur, making jest?”

“Shut up, Eames, if you know what’s good for you,” Arthur growled, trampling ahead. He was sorely tempted to push an obviously disoriented Eames into the snow. Ceil followed, with Diablo close behind, and the two dogs ran ahead, bounding along happily. Arthur barely suppressed a smile; he didn’t want Eames to see how much he enjoyed letting their pets play together.

Eames, though, noticed everything, just because he’s trained for so long at his job that it’s simply become a second nature for them both. And if he ‘accidentally’ brushed his gloved hand against Arthur’s cold fingertips more than once, Arthur said nothing too, simply content to bask in the calm tranquility of a picture-perfect winter forest.

They made it back in exactly three days, and after a week’s worth of lumpy, suspiciously damp cots in various little inns along the road, the Holy City looked like heaven. While the massive fortress was slippery, dreary and wet on the best of days, nothing looked more like home than the towering oak doors of the guild beckoning to them with promises of a roaring fire, excellently aged whiskey and comfortable, bear skin-lined beds. Ceil and Diablo dashed up to the doors, pawing and barking excitedly as Arthur and Eames trailed up the stone steps, worn out but happy to be back.

The doors creaked open and a young woman with long, chestnut brown hair tied back with a colourful scarf peeked out. She shrieked in delight when Ceil and Diablo jumped at her, licking at her face happily.

“Ceil! Diablo! Arthur! Eames! You’re back!”

“Hello, Ariadne,” Arthur smiled, easing his dog off his friend. “Yes, we’re back.”

“It’s good to see you,” Ariadne beamed, throwing her arms around Arthur in a fierce hug before attacking Eames with an equally bone-breaking one. “HEY GUYS!” she bellowed into the mess hall. “Look who’s back!”

They were greeted by several joyous shouts and hands that reach out to pat them on the back, shake their frozen ones, or to press food or tankards of ale into them. Arthur greets some hunters he knows, nods at a couple others he sees but doesn’t talk with, and then he found himself with an armful of one beautiful, graceful, French Mal Cobb.

“Arthur, mon cher,” Mal cried, hugging him tightly. “Good to have you home.”

“Thanks, Mal,” Arthur grinned, squeezing back gently. Behind her, a sandy-haired man with bright blue eyes walked up, smiling at Arthur.

“Dom,” Arthur greeted, releasing Mal to clasp his friend’s hand.

“Arthur. Welcome back,” Dom said happily, slapping an amiable hand on Arthur’s back as well. “Trust the hunt went well?”

“It was going well,” Arthur rolled his eyes, remembering the incident at the swamp. “Then Eames showed up.” He glanced in the direction of the older man, who was embracing Mal tightly and jabbering away with her in perfect French. Dom chuckled, waggling his eyebrows.

“Have you caved yet?” he asked in a devious voice, and Arthur huffed loudly.

“For the last time, Dom, there’s nothing between us,” Arthur rebuked quietly, pushing his friend on the shoulder. Dom leaned back, looking skeptical.

“I’ve never seen Eames so dedicated to somebody before. He’s followed you everywhere you went, literally, even though there’s no gold for him involved. I think he’s genuinely interested in you, Arthur.”

“Right,” Arthur scoffed. “You know he’s flirty with everybody, Dom, don’t take him so seriously.” As if on cue, Eames leaned down to give Mal a smacking kiss on the cheek, causing her to giggle and fire some figure of speech off in rapid French. Dom’s face turned an interesting shade of red.

“Hey, hands off my girlfriend, Eames!” Dom hollered, bounding over to where the two were standing, and Arthur, fighting back a laugh, started making his way upstairs to the lodging, looking forwards to a wash and some dinner.

When he came back downstairs, much more refreshed and dressed in a simple pair of slacks, a shirt with a vest overtop, he found the members of the guild gathered around the entrance, chatting warmly with Mal and Dom, who were both dressed for travel and armed with more weapons than Arthur had ever seen them hunt with. Dom had two rifles slung over his shoulder and a longsword, while Mal had an elegant set of throwing knives and a loaded pistol. Their belongings were packed away in mermaid-scale bags. It looked like a long journey.

“Where’re you headed off to?” Arthur asked, merging into the crowd next to Eames. Mal smiled, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“We took a request recently, an S-Class witch,” she said, and Arthur’s gut tightened instinctively. Witches were categorized by the powers on the Paranormal Scale; under the classes A, B, C, D, and S. S-Class goes without saying as, hands down, the most dangerous and fearsome witches a hunter could ever hunt.

“Where?” Arthur asked.

“Limbo Sphere,” Dom answered. “The witch’s name is Inceptia. She’s wrecked quite a bit of havoc to the village already. It’s a major trading post between East Europe and Central, so it’s vital we kill her as soon as possible.”

“Be careful!” Ariadne said quickly, looking worried for the two hunters. “Watch your backs carefully.”

“We will, lovely,” Mal smiled, giving Ariadne a hug. “Don’t you worry! We’ll be back before you know it!”

There were plenty more hugs and handshakes exchanged before Mal and Dom pushed open the doors of the guild, heading down the steps hand in hand. Arthur watched them go, stomach feeling a little queasy. S-Class witches were to be feared. Even Mal and Dom, ranked third and fourth respectively below Arthur, would find Inceptia a challenge.

“They’ll be fine,” a voice murmured in his ear, and Arthur jumped. Eames stood close behind him, a slightly wistful expression on his face as they watched the couple disappear down the street. “They’re tough. They’ll know what to do.”

“I know that,” Arthur huffed, reaching out to close the doors before the heat from the blazing fireplace escaped. “Mal and Dom are experienced hunters. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Hmm,” Eames said, crossing his arms. He looked hesitant as he glanced towards the door and back to Arthur. “Arthur, d’you think we could be like that?”

“Like what?” Arthur asked, forehead creasing. Eames tilted his head, lifting a shoulder.

“You know, like Mal and Dom?” he said, making eye contact with Arthur. His irises were an amazingly storm-grey and blue. Arthur could feel his breath constrict a little in his chest and he very nearly stumbled on his next words.

“What, be hunting partners?” he asked. “You already follow me everywhere I go, Eames, what’s the point of making it official now?”

“Not exactly like that, Arthur, good grief,” Eames exhaled, running an exasperated hand over his face. “Yes, hunt together too, but I meant if we could be like Mal and Dom. If we could be together.”

Arthur froze, stiff as a statue, just barely comprehending Eames’ words. Eames was asking him to be _together_?

“What,” Arthur croaked as something strangely akin to panic fluttered in his heart. “Like, a relationship—?”

“Arthur!” Ariadne suddenly hollered, making both men jump. “Arthur, could you give me a hand with Ceil?”

“I—just a second, Ari,” Arthur shouted back, mouth dry, and he spun around to face Eames, but the older man was already tucking his hands into his pocket, his expression closed off.

“Never mind, Arthur, we’ll talk later,” he said with a small smile. “Go tend to your dog.”

“I—alright,” Arthur spluttered, hating how his face went red at that very moment, and he spun around on his heel, walking briskly over to the fireplace where Yusuf was giving the dogs their usual antibacterial potion shots. Diablo was already pleasantly sated by the fire, head in his paws, but Ceil had never liked needles and was whimpering and squirming everywhere. Ariadne was patting his head soothingly.

“Sorry, here, let me—” Arthur said quickly, dropping to his knees to lift Ceil’s head into his lap. “There, boy, it’s okay,” he murmured comfortingly, stroking along the retriever’s head. Ceil quivered in his lap but stilled, comforted by his owner’s presence. Quick as a cat, Yusuf injected the potion and Ceil yelped, but the doctor was already done the act with a satisfied smile.

“There we go, quick and painless,” he declared as Ceil padded over to curl up next to Diablo. “Can’t risk the mutts catching something out in those woods.”

“Thanks,” Arthur said, shaking Yusuf’s hand.

“Anytime, Arthur,” Yusuf replied cheerfully as he packed up his bottles and retreated into the basement, where the infirmary and his personal labs were located. He was something of a mad scientist, and in the beginning Arthur had a few qualms about letting the man operate on him, but Yusuf had long since demonstrated his skill and trustworthiness when he removed a fatal serpent’s poison from Arthur’s bloodstream with a few choice potions.

Scratching the dogs’ heads for a moment, Arthur sighed and gazed mindlessly into the fireplace, watching the flames lick at the logs.

“Did I cockblock you?” Ariadne asked suddenly, and Arthur almost choked on his own tongue.

“Did you _what_?” he spluttered, wheeling around on the younger woman. “That’s vulgar, Ari!”

“I grew up in a carpenter’s shop with seven older brothers and now I hunt witches for a living, Arthur, I’m not exactly some saintly virgin in the Cathedral,” Ariadne shot back, glowering. Then, she smirked. “Well, I’m not hearing a denial here, so did I?”

“Shut up,” Arthur said through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You blocked nothing.”

Ariadne sighed and shrugged a shoulder. “Whatever you say,” she said, getting to her feet. “But for the record, Eames really does care about you, you know.”

Arthur swallowed, turning away. “I know that,” he answered quietly, watching the fire again.

“Then give him a chance, Arthur,” Ariadne said softly, patting him on the back as she left. “He’s a good man.”

Arthur blinked and watched as a log popped and snapped in half in the flames, sparks showering out like stars. “I know that too,” he whispered, just for himself to hear.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur never figured out how Eames knew his name.

He supposed the man could’ve asked around before, but they’d never met face to face until that moment. Arthur _had_ seen a black and white photo of Eames with the gang that Yusuf had on his bookshelf (the man was a sucker for sentimental things, like souvenirs and pictures), and Eames had been pretty much what everybody had described him to be. Broad and cheerful, and from other recounts smart and savvy as well.

Smart enough to have found Arthur’s name too, apparently. From day one, Eames loved to poke at Arthur’s nerves. He teased the younger man relentlessly, asked hundreds of questions, and made up the ridiculous pet names that would send Arthur into paroxysms of rage. He followed Arthur around the guild, struck up conversations about whatever he fancied, called him _darling_ regardless of whatever Arthur said, and when on his first official hunt, Eames had been watching from his perch in a tree as Arthur took a long hunting knife and cut a witch’s head off with one clean stroke.

Arthur had decided that he didn’t like Eames. Stupid, childish Eames with his juvenile name-calling, food-stealing and random bursts of poetry. Arthur growled at him when Eames slung an arm around his shoulders and whacked him on the side of the head when Eames went for a grope at his ass. The intelligence and skill was painfully obvious, but Arthur had initially refused to acknowledge Eames’ natural genius because of his general irritation towards the man.

And then, Arthur watched Eames kill a witch.

It had been the most terrifying thing in the world and the biggest turn-on ever.

It was a joint hunt for a C-Class witch that Father Saito had sent the two of them out for, hoping Arthur could keep two eyes on Eames and learn from him at the same time. They had been stuck in the Basa-Mombo Forests; a thick, humid jungle-like spread of trees even further south than the Islands. Their target was Cobolla, a nasty witch who liked to kill her prey by strangling them to death.

The terrain was nothing Arthur had never seen before: steep cliffs, rushing rivers, and a mess of twisted branches attached to ugly old trees that looked the same for miles on end. Eames, however, seemed to know exactly what he was doing as he pressed silently into the woods with Arthur covering his back. The heat had done nothing to keep Arthur’s head clear and with his sweaty palms he could barely get a grip on his rifle. They’d walked on for a few more moments before Eames suddenly froze, his entire body tensing in one fluid motion, and Arthur had stopped too.

Then, Cobolla swooped down from nowhere and grabbed Arthur around the neck. Arthur leapt into action and threw the witch, but ended up going down with her as well, mainly because Cobolla seemed highly reluctant to let go of his throat. They struggled on the ground for a few moments that had Arthur seeing stars because of the lack of oxygen. He remembered thrashing wildly, making pained, raspy noises as he struggled to take in air, and then Cobolla had released Arthur with a shriek. Eames had kicked her off Arthur with such ferocity that she’d been sent flying back into a tree. Arthur scrambled upright with his rifle, but he didn’t dare shoot as Eames launched himself into a physical grappling match with the witch in fear of accidentally shooting his partner.

There was no silly, joking Eames now. This was Eames the witch hunter and Arthur’s eyes widened at the sheer aggressiveness and power Eames packed into every punch, the swiftness of each duck and swerve Eames took to avoid Cobolla’s clutches. Undeterred, the witch lunged again, and this time, she managed to latch her gnarled hands around Eames’ neck—

—to which Eames responded by tossing his shotgun aside completely and closing his own massive hands around Cobolla’s throat. The witch’s eyes bulged madly, and for a heart pounding second both of them stood locked in position. Then, Eames’ superior strength won over and he snapped Cobolla’s neck in a clean break. The witch’s body slumped and fell into the shrubbery with a muffled _thud_. There had been a ringing silence afterwards.

“You certainly gave her a taste of her own medicine,” Arthur managed after a moment, his voice scratchy from being choked. And Eames, heaven help him, turned and smirked so cockily at him that it made Arthur’s knees turn into jelly.

“I do my best, Arthur,” Eames murmured in a slightly rough, husky voice, and Arthur had an instinctive feeling that it would be the death of him.

+

For the next three weeks, Arthur did absolutely nothing.

He didn’t normally indulge in laziness, but he felt like a vacation; waking up in the late morning in a warm cocoon of blankets, eating a full meal in the mess hall with whoever was present, and doing whatever he pleased. Arthur helped Yusuf organize his inventory of specimens in the cellar and lent a hand in Ariadne’s own carpentry shop located across the road from the guild.

He didn’t see Eames very often, though if Arthur really wanted to find him he knew where Eames would be camped out: in the guild’s massive, two-story library located at the very back of the building. It was a magnificent collection that Father Saito and Eames had placed a painstaking amount of time in gathering and repairing together, and it was one of Eames’ greatest prides and joy. Arthur admitted that he adored the library; there was everything from thin children’s fairytales to ancient religious texts bound in leather, delicate scraps of pages salvaged from book burnings and full manual scripts preserved in airtight glass cases. It was a hailed relic of the Holy City, a place where even the Popes and Kings have travelled to view, but on normal, end-of-the-season days like such, it was simply a comfortable place that Arthur could always find peace and relaxation in.

Today, however, when he pushed open the doors of the library it was because of his mission to find Father Saito and cash in his kill— Eames’ kill, Arthur grumbled a little in the back of his mind. The priest was sitting in favourite armchair near the smaller fireplace, thumbing through what looked like one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. He looked up as Arthur neared.

“Arthur,” Father Saito greeted. “Finally here for your pay?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied, retrieving the pouch from his trouser pocket. “And maybe go through the hit list for a small side job?” Side jobs didn’t offer as much money as assigned requests did, but it was nonetheless a good breather inbetween big missions.

“Very well,” Father Saito said, getting to his feet in a smooth, unhurried manner. There had been debate over Father Saito’s heritage because not only was he extremely learned for a mere priest, his mannerisms and general existence radiated of a noble family background. His past had always been a secret, though, and each story had been just as unlikely as the last.

The priest moved to the archives of the library, unlocking the case for a massive book holding record of the guild’s long history. Father Saito set it down upon the mahogany table and opened the record book, smoothing out the sheets with care. “The name?” Father Saito asked.

“Cariphia,” a voice interrupted before Arthur could speak, and he rolled his eyes minutely before turning to face Eames. The man was dressed in a comfortable pair of pants, soft boots, and a loose-fitting maroon shirt. He gave Arthur a passing smile and leaned against the table next to the slimmer man.

“D-Class,” Father Saito hummed, running a finger down the list of names. He extended his palm and Arthur placed the pouch in it; Father Saito picked up a pair of tweezers and pulled out the piece of skin inscribed with the Devil’s Spot. It was a perfect match with the diagram in the book.

“Good work, Arthur,” Father Saito praised, placing the evidence into another pouch. He reached for the inkpot and withdrew a dripping brush to swiftly draw a line through Cariphia’s name. Leaving the book open for the ink to dry, the priest momentarily disappeared and then returned from his office in the library with a hefty bag of coins. He passed it to Arthur, who weighed it in his hands and nodded in return. “Thank you, Father.”

“And the list you wanted,” Father Saito said, passing a folded sheet of parchment to Arthur. “Return it to my desk once you’re finished.”

“Yes sir,” Arthur said, and turned to leave the library. Eames fired off a goodbye to Father Saito before running to catch up with Arthur.

“What’s that, love?” Eames asked, leaning in. Arthur pushed at him good-naturally.

“Small-time witches for me to hunt while waiting for a big job,” he said. “You’re not going to follow me on this one, Eames.”

“No way!” Eames pouted, bounding along after Arthur back into the mess hall. It was just a little while after lunchtime and most hunters were either out on a job, napping, or spending some time outside of the guild. There was an unnatural amount of sun today, and many villagers were taking advantage of the lovely afternoon. Ceil and Diablo, who’d been lazing about in front of the fireplace, jumped up with loud barks and joined them as the hunters sat down at one of the tables. Eames pulled the two dogs up onto the table, grinning widely when their tails wagged so quickly they threatened to fly off.

“Their paws, which have been everywhere, are on the surface of the table on which we eat upon,” Arthur said without real heat. Eames just smirked at him, knowing that he wasn’t serious.

“You’ve only just finished one massive job, Arthur, it doesn’t hurt to take a longer vacation.”

“I’ve had three weeks off, Eames,” Arthur retorted, spreading the list out on the table. “I need to stay in shape.”

“Always a perfectionist,” Eames sighed dramatically, propping his chin up on his hand. “What’re you looking for?”

“I don’t know yet,” Arthur muttered, running his finger down the index of names. “Whatever comes to fancy, I guess.” There was a large variation of names and class ranks, and Arthur took his time browsing through them all. Azusz. Taemeira. Khazara. B-Class. C-Class. D-Class. Attacked village with fireballs. Set a plague of bats upon a town. Poisoned the streams and wells. Arthur read on, frowning. It was some pretty horrible stuff.

He turned the page over to look at the names of some places he’d have to travel to. Fort Parisia. Syn Harbour. Lost Angels Bay. Eames had been there before, Arthur remembered. The nearly deserted and highly isolated town nearly as North as Morthmount was even drearier than the Holy City in a rainstorm.

“I’ve been to Lost Angels,” Eames said, poking his head over. “It’d be quite lovely if it had more colours than grey. Even the water looked kind of murky. Well, the portion that wasn’t frozen, I suppose.”

“I was just up North,” Arthur grumbled. “Somewhere warmer might be better for a change.”

“Or you could just stay here,” Eames suggested with a wry grin. “Hang around, play with Ceil and Diablo for a while. You don’t have to be so eager to go out and hunt witches, Arthur. Or are you on a plan to overthrow my unspoiled, eight-month status as the top hunter in the guild?”

“Oh yes,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’ve got no goals other than taking top place here. You are my archenemy, Mr. Eames. Everything I’ve done was to lead up to the moment where I steal the crown.”

Eames chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated Arthur, thank you,” he grinned. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not condescending you, Eames. I was being sarcastic. There’s a fine line.”

“Are you sure you know where that line is, then?” Eames asked, face a mask of seriousness, but the tick in the corner of his mouth gave him away. Arthur huffed and folded the sheet back up again.

“I know very much where the line is, Eames. I just hope you do,” he hissed and got to his feet, upsetting Ceil in the process. Eames’ face quickly hardened into something more focused and he said quickly, “Arthur, love, I was just jesting with you.”

“Good to know,” Arthur snorted, starting to walk away.

“Will you stop walking away when I’m talking, for Christ’s sake?!”

Arthur stopped, really stopped this time, because it was the first time Eames had ever raised his voice to him. He turned, stiffly, and crossed his arms was he faced the other hunter. Eames’ expression was one of slight annoyance, frustration, and— hurt? Arthur pressed his lips together, trying to ignore the little voice in his head whispering that _he’d_ been the one to have crossed a line this time.

“I admit that I goaded you into that one, Arthur, and I’m sorry,” Eames gritted out. “But you keep walking away from me. You always do. You never wait around for what I have to say, and you’re afraid to acknowledge me. Do you know how that feels? To see someone you care about constantly brushing you aside?”

Arthur’s face flushed. “What are you saying?” he asked harshly. “You shouldn’t have invested so much faith in me then, Eames. Maybe I’m not what you think I am.” The voice in his head was screeching that he’d ruined everything now, if Eames’ openly wounded expression didn’t already tell him everything.

“Arthur,” Eames said softly, sadly. “Arthur, you haven’t even given me a chance to explain myself.”

He could feel himself tensing, his cowardly instincts screaming for him to run before he could mess this up even further; before he and Eames could never go back to the way they were before. But just as Arthur opened his mouth to ask Eames exactly what he wanted to say, Diablo and Ceil started to bark, hard, loud, and slightly panicked. A second later, there was the sound of the double doors opening, and any exasperation directed towards the third party evaporated when the ragged, bloodied form of Dom Cobb staggered into the mess hall. Arthur’s heart froze and he shouted, “Dom!” before both of them rushed forwards to support their friend, who looked dead on his feet.

“YUSUF!” Eames hollered. “Yusuf! We need you now!”

“Dom, keep your eyes open,” Arthur said hurriedly, carrying the blonde with Eames towards the benches. “Dom, can you hear me?”

Dom’s eyes fluttered weakly and he whispered, “Arthur? Is that you?”

“It’s me, Dom,” Arthur replied, a bit of relief washing over him. “We’ve got you; Eames and I. Don’t move so much, Yusuf’s coming.”

“No,” Dom pleaded weakly, clutching at Arthur’s arm. “No, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” Arthur asked, confused. “Dom, what are you saying?”

“I didn’t mean to— I can’t— It’s all my fault—” Dom whimpered, and a tear ran down his grime-streaked face. Before Arthur could question him further, Eames suddenly said, “Cobb. Cobb, where’s Mal?”

Arthur felt his blood run cold in his veins as he looked up at the other hunter. Eames’ eyes were wide and his jaw tight. He gripped Dom by the shoulder and repeated, “Cobb? Where is Mal?”

And Dom turned over, crying for real now, broken, ragged sobs tearing at his frame. “She’s _gone_ ,” he wailed, as Yusuf, Ariadne, and Father Saito burst into the mess hall. “Mal’s _dead_ ,” and in that moment, Arthur felt nothing but a numbness from head to toe except where Eames had grasped his hand very, very tightly, as though holding onto Arthur would shield him from any of the pain that only the loss of a dear friend could inflict upon a person.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur had a best friend when he was a very young boy. That best friend came in the form of a village stray, a tiny little terrier with pointed ears and a pink tongue that would appear by the fence at Arthur’s old home and eat up every single scrap Arthur could spare him. It wasn’t very sanitary and he’d probably spoiled the dog for nothing less than his mother’s wonderful cooking, but he couldn’t help it— Arthur loved the little mutt to death, and the dog adored Arthur equally.

After Skrykes murdered his family, the dog (he’d never named the pooch) stopped coming by. Maybe it saw the house in flames, or maybe he’d been chased away by the villagers, but Arthur never saw his friend again. He’d sneak all the way across the village during the night, when Tomas the blacksmith was sound asleep in his bunk, back to the charred remains of his family home, waiting by the remains of the fence for the dog. Sometimes he’d manage to steal a small apple, or a tiny strip of dried meat, but in the end, Arthur always went home dejectedly by dawn, dragging his feet and feeling a kind of loneliness a child would feel after losing not only their family, but a good friend as well.

The day he turned nineteen, just before he left the village forever, Arthur waited a day by his old home just for old times’ sake.

By nightfall, he was walking on the road to the next town, chewing bitterly on a red apple.

That memory didn’t elude him years later, at the guild. Some witch hunters like to keep small pets with them, like Ariadne’s falcon or Yusuf’s fat cat. Arthur found birds much too bothersome and he was rather allergic to cats, but for a very long time he couldn’t bring himself to get a dog. It brought ugly memories back up and above all else, Arthur hated the feeling of being alone.

Then, one day, whilst grocery shopping with Ariadne and Eames tagging along, they ran into a small group of children by the farmer’s cart admiring a new litter of puppies. Arthur had found himself, embarrassingly enough, yearning to cradle one of the sleepy pups in his hands. They were just big enough to be useful around a home or shop, but not exactly built for witch hunting. Trying to quell the small pang of disappointment in his chest, Arthur left Ariadne and Eames to giggle with the children while he went through a new batch of Farmer Totus’ freshly dug up potatoes.

But Arthur should have known better. Nothing escapes Eames, and especially not Arthur’s tugging heartstrings.

Three days later, Arthur walked downstairs into the mess hall, and he was surprised by Mal, Ariadne and Yusuf cooing at two puppies, one a husky mix and the other a slightly smaller golden retriever with the most beautiful coat. Dom was standing by pretending not to be infatuated by the puppies’ general adorableness while Father Saito talked amicably with Eames. When Arthur walked over, the golden retriever looked up from Mal’s lap and barked brightly in his direction.

“Arthur!” Eames exclaimed just as cheerfully, straightening up. “Glad you’re here!”

“What is this?” Arthur asked, frowning at the dogs. The husky looked up with interest while the golden retriever practically leapt out of Mal’s gentle hands and entwined itself around Arthur’s legs. Unable to resist, Arthur leaned down and petted the dog’s head.

“It’s a present,” Ariadne said smugly, gesturing at the retriever, and Yusuf giggled. Eames glowered and smacked the doctor before clearing his throat. “Yes. Sneaky, eavesdropping Ariadne is correct. The lovely little pup that’s gotten himself all around you, anyway.”

“For whom?” Arthur asked, glancing up. Eames’ expression was soft as he tilted his head.

“You, Arthur. Who else?”

Arthur blinked, startled. The puppy barked excitedly, as though understanding Eames’ words.

“Me?” he stammered, momentarily thrown off. “Why— why’d you get me a dog, Eames?”

The older hunter shrugged a nonchalant shoulder and said, “I wanted the husky, Diablo, as a hunting partner because I’m always going out alone. Mal and Cobb have each other and Ari’s got that lovely screeching rooster—”

“It’s a falcon, you blind donkey!” Ariadne shouted indignantly.

“Right, a feathered pig, whatever,” Eames grinned, waving an airy hand. “But the thing is, the two pups were so attached to each other that it was utterly inhumane to break them apart. So, I did the noble thing and brought both.” Eames walked over and gently scooped the golden retriever up in his massive hands, holding the dog out to Arthur. Both of them simultaneously made massive puppy eyes at him, and Arthur nearly went into cardiac arrest because Eames had realized how much Arthur wanted a dog. Really not fair.

“His name’s Ceil,” Eames said softly, close enough for Arthur to see the flecks of light blue in the hunter’s stormy grey eyes. “Will you take care of him, Arthur? And let Ceil take care of you when you hunt alone?”

By now, everybody in the room had tactfully adverted their eyes, and Arthur opened his mouth—he ought to refuse, tell Eames he couldn’t possibly raise a dog, point out how dangerous and difficult it would be to involve animals in witch hunting— but his heart won over. Hesitantly, Arthur reached out and scooped Ceil into his arms, and the puppy curled right up against his chest as though he’d always belonged there, eyes bright and cheerful. Arthur couldn’t stop the wide smile from breaking onto his face.

“Thank you, Eames,” Arthur said, and he was completely honest. Arthur loved Ceil beyond all reason already.

Eames chuckled and threw and arm around Arthur, pulling him into a casual hug. Ceil let out a happy bark, caught right inbetween. “You’re very welcome, darling,” Eames replied fondly, and Arthur let the nickname slide that one time.

It was the best feeling of his entire life.

+

Arthur felt like shit.

Dom had barely escaped Limbo Sphere and Inceptia’s clutches, so he couldn’t bring Mal’s body back. The funeral they had several days later was a small, quiet procession at the churchyard with an empty grave. It was a winter morning with blazing sunlight, but there was no warmth cast over any of the hunters. The ground was hard as rock and frost covered the branches of the trees.

Dom, hardly able to stand on his own two feet, spent the majority of the funeral supported by Arthur and Ariadne. He didn’t cry, but Arthur knew that his friend’s grief was beyond tears. There was an empty, hollow glaze over Dom’s light blue eyes that Arthur doubted would ever go away. He and Mal had been soulmates. Nobody could ever replace her in Dom’s world.

The mood of the guild had sunk drastically. Even the dogs were quiet and down, and they were spending more time huddled together by the fire than before. Yusuf stayed in his basement laboratory most of the time, and Ariadne stayed in her room. Dom went back to the infirmary after the funeral, laid down facing the wall, and did not acknowledge anybody. Any attempts Arthur or Father Saito made to talk with him fell flat. It was distressing, but not unexpected.

Arthur felt ill most days. He found it difficult to get up in the mornings, to eat, or do anything otherwise. The list for side jobs ended up on Father Saito’s desk and Arthur didn’t go out. In fact, he spent most of his time holed up in the library, sitting in one of the tall-backed wooden chairs, staring out the window, thinking of nothing and everything at once.

Eames had spent almost every day out in the city and away from the heavy atmosphere of the guild, so about a week after the funeral, Arthur was wholly surprised when a shadow fell over his chair. The older hunter appeared at his shoulder, tired and somber.

“Arthur,” Eames said quietly. “How’re you feeling?”

Arthur let out a humorless, hollow laugh. “I’ve always skipped the first few stages of grief,” he said lowly. “I’ve moved right on to acceptance because somebody has to in this guild.”

Eames looked sadly down at him. “Give them a chance, Arthur. We all loved Mal.”

Arthur sighed heavily and scrubbed at his face, suddenly feeling very old. “I know,” he mumbled. Eames placed a heavy, comforting hand on his shoulder and said, “Sometimes, I feel like you’re the oldest out of all of us, Arthur dear.”

“I’m simply a realist, Mr. Eames. I was one from a very young age.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Eames said softly, his hand squeezing lightly.

Arthur snorted. “Don’t be. If I wasn’t one, I wouldn’t have survived for such a long time.”

Eames looked pained. “Arthur,” he began, but then a small cough sounded from behind them.

It was Ariadne, dressed in a baggy sweater with her hair combed into a braid. There were dark circles under her bloodshot eyes and she looked pale.

“Father Saito wants to talk to the both of you in his study,” she whispered, and before either Arthur or Eames could speak, she turned and walked out of the library. The two hunters exchanged worried looks.

“She’ll be fine, love,” Eames murmured. “C’mon, let’s go see what Father Saito wants.”

Mutely, Arthur nodded.

Father Saito’s study was located on the smaller second floor of the library, but when Arthur pushed open the door after knocking, he was surprised to find that the priest was not alone. Seated in one of the comfy sofas next to Father Saito in the middle of the room was a young man with startlingly bright cerulean eyes. His hair was loose and a little ruffled, as though he’d been walking through the wind. He was dressed in neat, crisp clothes, and Arthur immediately associated the man as someone of power. The man’s face, however, was also peaky and extremely tired.

“Arthur, Eames,” Father Saito said, standing. He gestured to the mystery man. “This is Lord Fischer from the Pinnerwheel Estates.”

“Please, call me Robert,” Lord Robert Fischer said, quickly getting to his feet and extending his hand to shake Arthur and Eames’. His palms were smooth, unblemished. Definitely someone of comfortable leadership, Arthur thought as he absentmindedly rubbed his calloused hands together while Robert and Eames shook.

“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Father Saito said, gesturing to the opposite couch.

“Is something wrong?” Arthur asked, slowly sinking into the couch. Next to him, Eames was so tense he could’ve been carved from wood.

“Yes,” Father Saito said, to the point as always. “It’s about Inceptia.”

It felt as though a block of ice had slid into Arthur’s stomach, chilling his insides while his heart jumped. He hadn’t exactly expected that.

“What about her?” Eames asked, cautious but interested.

“After escaping from Cobb and Mal in Limbo Sphere, Inceptia has chosen to take over a new location: Pinnerwheel Estates.”

“Lord Fischer’s lands,” Arthur said, looking over. Robert nodded, clasping his hands together.

“She took us without warning,” he said softly. “She cast some kind of spell over the villagers. Very quickly, many of them went mad and began attacking each other. We couldn’t find any way to break her curse, so we rallied up the foot soldiers and drove the spellbound off the cliffs.” At this, Robert buried his face in his hands and whispered brokenly, “Including my uncle Peter.”

Arthur felt a pang of sympathy. It was a horrible and near barbaric thing that the villagers had done, but there was true pain and regret in the man’s voice. “I’m sorry,” he offered, and Robert managed a shaky smile.

“I’m aware of how cruel our actions were. I’ve sent all the villagers away, and now we’ve set up camp in the Piaf Woods.”

“Inceptia’s still in Pinnerwheel?” Eames asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Robert nodded. “As far as we know. Several scouts have seen her, and so have I. We dare not attack in fear of falling under the spell, but now we are faced with a problem. It is winter and we cannot survive long outside of our homes. If spring arrives and we cannot harvest our crops, my people will starve. The towns surrounding Pinnerwheel are small, and they cannot support us. We have nowhere to go.”

“This is where I’ll have to ask your help, gentlemen,” Father Saito said, his dark eyes boring into Arthur and Eames. “Inceptia is dangerous. If she can take over such a large town, then there is a possibility that she can continue to extend her power. I need the two of you to go and hunt her down.”

There was a tense pause. Arthur exhaled slowly, unfurling his clenched hands. To be honest, he’d seen this coming to moment Father Saito mentioned Inceptia. With Robert’s obvious status of leadership, he was not surprised that he and Eames would be asked to do this job.

“Wait,” Eames said suddenly. Everybody turned to look at him. “May I have a word with Arthur for a moment, Father Saito?”

The priest raised an eyebrow but gestured towards the door, and Eames looked expectantly at Arthur. Already dreading the impending discussion, Arthur got up and followed Eames out of the study.

“You don’t want to do it,” Arthur said the minute they were out of earshot.

“Damn straight I don’t,” Eames replied tersely. “Let me guess, you’d like a shot at this.”

“Damn straight I do,” Arthur hissed back. “Eames, this is the witch that killed Mal. She’s basically killed Dom too. Now she’s taking over an entire village. She’s dangerous. No other witch has ever done something like this before.”

“Exactly my point,” Eames replied sharply. “Cobb and Mal weren’t pushovers, Arthur, but Inceptia bowled them over like they were nothing. Cobb barely made it home. Also, don’t forget that she’s got some power unlike any other witch before.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur said. “Placing a spell over villagers? Witches can’t do that. They can’t hypnotize people, change them, or anything of that sort. There’s got to be a more logical reasoning behind this.”

“Logic or not, half a village has been driven off a cliff because she’s driven the people crazy, Arthur,” Eames said flatly. “If Fischer’s story is the truth, we’re not prepared for this.”

“Since when did witch hunting involve massive preparations?” Arthur demanded. “Half the time our plans fall flat, and we’ve had to improvise. This isn’t any different.”

“What’s different is that this isn’t your C-Class or D-Class witch, Arthur, and Cobb won’t even _tell_ us what the hell happened with him when he fought against Inceptia, and he’s our biggest clue. We’re running into this one blind, and chances are, the deeper we get the higher the stakes go. I’m sitting this one out, Arthur.”

Frustration and anger roils in Arthur’s gut. He understands Eames’ rationale, but that’s not how Arthur’s going to do things. “I’m not just going to sit around watching that witch run loose in some town. I’m taking the job.” He turned and started to stalk past Eames back into the study, but Eames caught Arthur’s arm.

“Avenging Mal doesn’t mean you have to risk yourself, Arthur,” Eames said lowly, and Arthur stiffened. However, he saw no need to deny his underlying reason for taking the job as he snapped, “Like I said, Mr. Eames. I’m a realist. Avenging Mal also doesn’t mean sitting here while her killer runs loose. Someone has to go after Inceptia, for her and for all the other people that witch has murdered.” With that, he yanked himself free from Eames’ grasp and walked back into the study, where the two men were conversing quietly.

“Well?” Father Saito asked, looking up when Arthur walked in.

“I’ll take the job,” Arthur said simply. Father Saito nodded, but his gaze was now fixed by the doorway. “And you, Mr. Eames?”

Arthur didn’t have to turn around to know that Eames was unhappy about this. He was fully prepared to go whether or not Eames would, but Arthur couldn’t help exhaling slightly in relief when the older hunter grunted, “I’m in,” as well. Father Saito made a satisfied noise.

“Thank you,” Robert choked out, getting up to clasp Arthur’s hand, and then Eames’. “I cannot thank the both of you enough. I assure you that you will get all the compensation you need for this job.”

Arthur said nothing, only inclining his head as he exited the study with Eames behind him. His heart felt like a trapped bird against his ribcage. Letting loose a breath he did not know he was holding, Arthur left the library by himself and headed upstairs to his room to prepare.

He had a witch to hunt.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I took a look at this story. Sorry for the two year delay, I'm not quite sure what came over me. Anyhow, I'm going to do my best to finish this story, since I'm actually quite fond of the idea of Arthur and Eames as witch hunters.
> 
> Happy (really belated) New Year, everyone!
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read!

It took Arthur a week to prepare for the hunt. He went through his inventory of weapons, packed the appropriate choice of clothing, and stocked up on research in the library. He went through old maps, limited accounts of the Witch Inceptia and notes on the geological aspects of both Limbo Sphere and Pinnerwheel Estates. Arthur learned that both towns were located next to a large river and hosted an impressive amount of plants to various degrees of diversity, but other than that, nothing helpful at all.

Eames was also obviously not the only one against Arthur’s decision to hunt down Inceptia. With Mal’s death still fresh on their minds, Ariadne had cursed him, punched him, and finally pleaded with Arthur to not go on the expedition. Yusuf had only shook his head sadly upon hearing the news and a couple other witch hunters had watched them with expressions closely associated with seeing a friend on death row. Arthur felt a little disgruntled. This wasn’t the first S-Class witch to be hunted, and nor was this the first time a fellow hunter had been killed.

But Mal had been loved. Mal had been so, so loved, and to suddenly lose their beautiful ray of sunshine in this dreary city had clearly taken its toll on everybody. Arthur knew that his friends were only acting this way because they were scared of losing him as well, and he couldn’t blame them. He’d be a liar if the thought of this trip didn’t make his blood chill. Arthur might’ve acted like he’d moved on, but since his meeting with Lord Fischer he’d been sleeping fitfully, waking up at ungodly hours of the night drenched in cold sweat with no memory of what he’d been dreaming about.

On the other hand, Eames had adopted a fairly professional and studious persona, and was nothing like the frustrated man who’d try to talk Arthur out of the hunt. The two of them had become nigh inseparable over the last week as they researched their location, brushed up on the little known facts of Inceptia, sparred, and eventually formulated a shaky plan of attack. Some nights Arthur would wake up, slumped over at a desk in the library with no memory of falling asleep and his face mashed into the musty pages of another book. Eames’ jacket would weigh heavily around his shoulders and the lingering scent of pipeweed hovered in the air. The tension was becoming painful for all of them, and Arthur just wanted to get this mission over with once and for all.

The morning of their departure had Arthur waking before dawn broke, stiff-necked and exhausted despite several hours of rest. Ceil had already roused, snuffling quietly by the bed as Arthur yanked on his tunic, pants, boots, vest and dragonskin jacket before packing up his rifle and an extra case of black powder. With his rucksack strapped tightly on his back, he slipped quietly out of his room, taking care not to tread on the creaky floorboards. He knew that Ariadne was hoping to catch him and Eames before they left, but he knew she wouldn’t be up this early. He didn’t want to say something as morbid as a goodbye to his friends anymore, not when they’d just done it for Mal.

Making his way quietly down the stairs, Arthur bypassed the mess hall to head over to the infirmary. He needed to grab a bit of bandages and healing potions, but Arthur also wanted to see Dom before he left.

The man was asleep in the cot, still curled up in a fetal position facing the drab stone wall, and Arthur wandered over. Dom and Mal had been his first friends at the guild and they’d taken him in when everybody was still hesitant to approach the young man with the eyes of a cold war veteran. They showed him around, introduced him to their circle of friends and encouraged him to step out of his carefully built defenses. Arthur knew he owed both of them.

A whisper of wind blew by, making the candle on the nightstand flicker weakly. It was then that Arthur caught sight of something by Dom’s bed. It was a short dagger, long as his forearm and studded with milky white pearls in the hilt. It was an old, medieval design that echoed a vaguely French origin and Arthur had no trouble guessing whom it belonged to. Guilt and sadness made his gut clench, and he reached over to place a gentle hand on Dom’s hunched shoulder.

“Hang in there, Dom,” Arthur said quietly, pulling the blanket up over his friend. Then, entirely on impulse, he also picked up Mal’s dagger and tucked it away inside his jacket. He doubted Dom would manage to notice its disappearance.

Eames was sitting in front of the fireplace when Arthur returned with two packs of potions that Yusuf had prepared for them. He looked older than Arthur had ever seen him, hunched over and travelling cloak lumpy with the concealed weapons underneath. The dying coals threw Eames’ stormy eyes, long nose (which Arthur suspected had been broken a few times) and tired frown into sharp relief. Diablo lifted his head when he caught sight of them and Arthur allowed Ceil to pad over and nuzzle his canine friend. But Eames only glanced up when Arthur wordlessly held out a potion pack, as though coming out of a reverie. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, tucking the pack away into his bag. Arthur swallowed tightly and nodded.

They were silent for a moment before Eames got up with a slight groan, rubbing his eyes. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing towards the door.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, squaring his shoulders. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Eames gave him a grim smile and adjusted the clasps on his cloak before pushing the guild’s doors open with a grunt. A sudden burst of chilly wind blew right past them, and Arthur shielded his face at the sudden onslaught of cold air before blinking twice in surprise.

“Is it snowing?”

There was a thin layer of frost covering the wall of the guild, the ground was an undisturbed picture of pristine white, and soft fluffy flakes were still floating soundlessly from the sky, gentle as a kiss. Arthur exhaled slowly, watching his breath rise in small puffs. He had never seen something so beautiful in his life.

Eames was staring up at the sky as well, something akin to awe on his face until another gust of cold air swept by. “Sweet Mother Mary, I am not prepared for this,” Eames swore, doing a full body shake. “If my balls freeze off, Fischer will pay.”

The moment of tranquility had been effectively shattered by Eames’ choicest words, and Arthur couldn’t help it.

He burst out laughing.

+

An hour later, when Ariadne had crawled out of bed and pulled open the guild doors at the break of dawn, the sky would have cleared, and the snow would have stopped falling.  
All that had been left behind were a set of footprints and paw prints leading away from home and to the world ahead.

+

Pinnerwheel Estates was located to east of the European borders and framed by two large rivers— the Imagger and the Tage, which made the township an excellent location for agriculture. For decades, the Estates had prospered under the leadership of Lord Maurice Fischer, whose expertise in the trades would bring the town wealth and build up its fantastic reputation. However, his sudden illness and equally sudden death left his only son, Robert, to take up his father’s mantel despite being fresh-faced and inexperienced with the matters of politics and trade. In response, his godfather Peter Browning had extended a caring hand to his godson— which, Arthur had concluded after some careful poking around, was not an act completely out of affection and goodwill. With its fortune and power, there was nothing not to like about being in control of land like Pinnerwheel Estates.

Well, at least before Inceptia.

A witch’s agenda is a complicated thing. Nobody truly knew how witches came to be, where they come from or how they gained their powers. It was common knowledge that they never work in groups, instead preferring to hunt and wreck mayhem by all by their lonesome. Witches would occasionally disappear into far-off lands, would drift silently in between civilizations for no apparent reason, or suddenly burst in unexpectedly into the scene with the bloodthirsty intent to kill and maim.

Not that Witch Hunters were different, really. Sometimes Arthur thought that both parties were equally guilty for the all blood spilled in the past and present.

But despite the general lack of information surrounding witches, one thing was clear: witches do not have mind controlling powers. They had impressive physical capabilities, could command small familiars and manipulate the elements to some extent, but they couldn’t take over a person’s mental state. So how did Inceptia do it?

The questions haunted Arthur for the duration of their one-week trip. Eames was, understandably, completely unenthusiastic about this hunt to begin with, so conversation between them were scarce and weary. Even the dogs were on edge when they sensed their owners’ distress, and Arthur had caught Ceil growling at a few village children that ran a bit too close by them, and Ceil never growled at anything other than a witch.

After seven days alternating between walking and hitchhiking on the backs of wagons, they finally found themselves at a tiny village tucked away into a clearing at the borders of the Piaf Woods. The villagers were clearly a secluded bunch and had probably never seen a traveller from a place as far as the Holy City, but a kindly huntsman offered Arthur and Eames his barn loft to sleep in that night and even invited them to his dinner table. After nothing but stale bread and cold broth for the last few days, they gratefully accepted and thoroughly enjoyed the wife’s delicious lamb stew and a hot spinach pie. The night was topped off with a few pints of mead and polite conversation before the sky darkened, the last of the workers staggered into their cabins and heavy wooden doors clattered shut as the villagers began to bunker down for another chilly night.

But Arthur knew that sleep would evade him until a much later hour, so after washing up he immediately got comfortable under a layer of borrowed quilts, set up a candle and pulled out his journal, intent on going over his notes one more time before they moved in on Pinnerwheel Estates the next morning. He felt like one of those scrawny scholars from the city’s university that would occasionally drop by to use the guild’s library in search for another piece of text.

He remembered how those prim, proper (and often bespectacled) academics looked awfully out of place beside the other hunters of the guild. They were often lost in thought with their noses buried in old scientific journals or reverently preserved religious doctrines, and would jump when Ariadne began to hammer away at one of the many wobbly tables with her carpenter tools, or cough and glare when Eames broke out his pipe and started gambling loudly with Yusuf and Dom. He remembered Mal lounging by the window, sunlight radiant on her wavy hair as she dragged Arthur over by the sleeve and insisted on discussing with him the new philosophical journal she’d been chipping away at. The memories were fond, warm, and something Arthur didn’t realized how much he treasured until things could not longer be the same again.  
The door of the barn rattled and a frigid draught swept into the loft. Arthur shivered, grateful for the quilts around him as he listened to Eames whistle to the dogs, grunt while pushing the mutts up the ladder before heaving himself into the cozy cavity under the barn roof.

“Had a good stroll?” Arthur asked, reaching over to scratch Ceil and Diablo while they stepped all over his crossed legs.

“I legitimately think my ears have frozen off,” Eames groaned as he rubbed his hands together. Flakes of snow that had caught on the scruff dotting his chin and jawline were slowly beginning to melt.

“There’s a fantastic invention that prevents that,” Arthur said, hiding a smirk. “It’s called hats.”

“Ha bloody ha,” Eames snorted as he began stripping off his coat and vest until he was down to his undershirt. “I think cabin fever’s already gotten to you, love, if you’re restless enough to start cracking jokes in the dead of night.”

“I’ll have you know my brain is functioning quite normally, thank you very much,” Arthur said as he turned another page of his journal. It featured Eames’ impeccable recreation of the terrain diagrams from the books on Limbo Sphere and Pinnerwheel Estates, along with a quick sketch of Inceptia from what Robert Fischer could recall. From what Lord Fischer had described, the witch had a cool, haughty air about her uncannily smooth features. Eames had effortlessly captured that image on paper, and even Arthur could grudgingly admit to the man was an excellent artist.

“Not one to rest on the eve of a battle, are you?” Eames mused. He shuffled over to where Arthur sat leaning against the wall and stuck his frozen toes into Arthur’s blanket fort.

“Stop that,” Arthur complained, giving Eames a kick in the leg for good measure. Eames snickered before leaning over to sneak a look at the journal.

“Found anything else that’s helpful in your diary?”

“Firstly, it’s not a diary, and secondly, let’s hope that I do, since there’s a lot riding on the outcome of our battle tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” Eames agreed solemnly. “I don’t suppose it’s too late to convince you to back out of this one now, is it?”

“Unfortunately, Eames, I think it is,” Arthur muttered, angling his book away from Eames as he sensed the old argument between them rearing its head again. “I have to finish this.”

“Now now,” Eames tutted, giving Arthur a friendly nudge with his elbow. “Let’s turn that ‘I’ into ‘we’, shall we? I did follow your stupid arse this far for what is possibly the most dangerous hunt I’ll ever embark on, and some people think I’m the reckless one between the two of us.”

“Well, I’m flattered, Mister Eames, seeing as I was the stick-in-the-mud just a few weeks ago,” Arthur said with a baleful smirk. “I thought for sure you were going to come up with yet another creative way to deter me again.”

“For the first time ever, Arthur, I do believe you’ve managed to out-stubborn me,” Eames sighed theatrically, slumping against Arthur’s side. For a man that had been staggering around in the bushes waiting for the dogs to relieve themselves for a good twenty minutes, he’d warmed up surprisingly quickly. The heat from Eames’ chest seemed to burn against Arthur’s shoulder.

“I’ll chalk it up as my win then,” Arthur hummed, tuning a page. “Lucky me.”

“I’d rather that luck last us all the way into tomorrow,” Eames said. “Is our plan really just to go in, scout Inceptia, and strike at the most opportune moment?”

“Good to see that your memory’s intact despite being in the cold for so long.”

“Awfully simple plan, don’t you think?” Eames pressed, disregarding the jab.

“Our foe is complicated enough, Eames. I don’t think we need a complex plan to go with it and raise the risk of things going bad.”

“But we still haven’t figured out how she’s doing that mind control thing,” Eames pointed out, and Arthur’s grip on his journal tightened minutely.

“That’s true,” he admitted. “But if we move fast, we won’t need to waste time distracting ourselves trying to figure out her powers.”

“I still think it’s too dangerous to run in without knowing the true strength of our opponent. We have to scope her out, Arthur, especially if her power is something as formidable as mind control.”

“For the last time,” Arthur said, snapping his journal shut in exasperation. “Witches can’t control minds. Even though we don’t know much about them, we’ve fought enough to know where their powers end. The human brain is too complex to be controlled by their magic. They definitely have magic, but even if they do, it’s only a primitive, crude form of it.”

“Alright, I give you that,” Eames grunted, pushing himself upright. “But you can’t deny that’s something in Inceptia’s magic that sets her apart from the other Witches. And that unknown factor could be something that can potentially ruin us.”

There’s a steely glint in his eye that holds Arthur’s gaze, and Arthur knows that the Eames has a point. Days of research had barely wielded any useful results on Inceptia, and at this rate Arthur was going to walk into Pinnerwheel Estate armed with only the knowledge of every single plant the township grew in their fields.

“I know that,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “It’s just— there was a way for me to find out more information on Inceptia. But it didn’t work.”

“Cobb,” Eames said, catching on immediately. “So he never said anything about his hunt, even to you?”

“Nothing,” Arthur shook his head and clenched his jaw. “I tried everything to convince him, but nothing got through. A brick wall could’ve told me more. Dom was the best hope and the only source we had.”

“He’s still in shock,” Eames murmured, reaching over to give Arthur a comforting pat on the back. “It’s going to take him a while to recover, and even then, he won’t be the same.”

“All more the reason to get rid of Inceptia then,” Arthur muttered, and he could feel Eames’ hand still on his back.

“Killing Inceptia won’t change the fact that Mal’s gone either, Arthur,” Eames said quietly. “Revenge isn’t going to help.”

“I know,” Arthur said, turning to face Eames. “But for what it’s worth, this will be closure.”

The shadows cast by the flickering candlelight made it difficult to gage the look on Eames’ face, but the man had always been the most expressive with his eyes. Arthur had seen hints of crow’s feet when Eames was laughing, the furrow of eyebrows when he was concentrating, and even the mischievous, glazed shimmer from when he’d taken one too many shrooms. Eames’ look of composed intensity held Arthur’s steady gaze as the two of them lapsed into silence that was only broken by the wind and their dogs’ snuffles.

“You’re so hell bent on helping everybody overcome this, Arthur,” Eames finally said, his voice so soft Arthur had to strain to hear it. “Have you even taken some time for yourself?”

“Of course. That’s what my diary’s for.”

That managed to make the corner of Eames’ mouth quirk. “And people still wonder why I follow you around, Arthur. If it weren’t for me sacrificing my dignity to become your verbal punching bag, you’d never find the time to relax.”

“Your noble sacrifice is duly noted,” Arthur replied, watching Eames’ expression go from faintly amused to fond before the other hunter raised his hands and placed them on Arthur’s shoulders, warm and anchoring.

“I’m not a noble man, Arthur. I’m just some poor bastard who couldn’t bring himself to stop you from accepting this job when you had that crazed, hurt look in your eyes and ended up tagging along with you on this stupid, god-awful hunt because I was afraid you’d end up like Mal, and I’ll never see you open the guild’s doors after completing a hunt ever again. I’m just a bloke who saw this gorgeous dark-haired hunter in the guild for the first time before he went off on a wild goose chase and nearly kicked the bucket doing so because I was so caught up in my daydreams about the newbie. And the first time I ever got to speak to you was when I came back with a chunk of flesh missing from my leg and was off my rockers on Yusuf’s sleeping potion.”

“I remember that vividly,” Arthur said, unable to help himself, and Eames chuckled.

“Not one of my most eloquent moments, I’ll admit. But I never stopped hoping, Arthur, that one day you’d forgive my more childish moments and give me a chance to tell you how I honestly feel.”

Arthur swallowed hard. How Eames felt.

Eames didn’t have to explain himself; his attraction to Arthur was the guild’s biggest and worst kept secret, after all. And Arthur knew that he’d been constantly brushing aside Eames’ advances and his friends’ encouragement alike. They’d been running around in circles for a long time, and now, on the eve of their hunt, things had finally come to a standstill.

“I know how you feel about me,” Arthur said quietly. “I just— I didn’t know what to think. And I’ve ruined some things in that regard.”

“It’ll take more than just your sharp wit to deter me,” Eames winked. One of his hands trailed up along the side of Arthur’s and cradled the side of his face warmly, and Arthur felt himself relaxing minutely. For a moment, he could pretend that his friend wasn’t dead, a Witch wasn’t on a rampage and the lifelong bitterness he felt down to his bones didn’t bother him at all.

When Eames slowly leaned in, still giving Arthur the chance to reject him, Arthur finally met him halfway and tilted his head up to press his lips carefully against Eames’.

Arthur wouldn’t say that he was well versed in the romance department, but he wasn’t a fool either, so when he felt Eames’ tongue tracing the seam of his mouth Arthur responded, parting his lips for the other hunter. He could feel Eames’ breath hitch ever so slightly and the hand on his shoulder tightened. Arthur’s own hand had managed to find a place on Eames’ hip, and the fingers against his face moved to touch the back of his neck. Arthur shivered and Eames hummed, his tongue slick against Arthur’s, his mouth infinitely warm, and his touch feather-light.

A particularly harsh gust of wind knocked something against the roof of the barn, startling them and waking the dogs. Diablo barked irritably, tail flopping against the quilt, but Ceil turned his head to fix Arthur and Eames with a stare that looked far too knowing for a dog. Arthur pulled back, feeling warm around the neck, and Eames let him go with a rather giddy grin on his face.

“Well, well. That was delightful, Arthur.”

“Shut up,” Arthur mumbled without any real malice, and busied himself with organizing his quilt and his journal. He could feel Eames watching him, but the hunter simply stuck a hand out and ruffled Arthur’s hair when he finally raised his head again.

“I’m not going to say anything that I wouldn’t normally say without the threat of an S-class witch awaiting me,” Eames said seriously. “So we’re both gonna take down Inceptia, get our freezing behinds back the guild, break out that bottle of wine Yusuf nicked from the Church cellars ages ago and talk this out over a fancy drink.”

“Yusuf is truly a man without morals,” Arthur replied nonchalantly, but he could feel the weight of Eames’ words. This was Eames promising to do his best not to get killed, and it was only common courtesy to return the gesture, right? “I look forward to it to this secret wine you’ve promised.”

“Good to hear,” Eames murmured, and he leaned in once more, pressing a quick kiss to Arthur’s forehead before sitting back, satisfied. “Time for bed, I suppose. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow.”

“Understatement of the year,” Arthur deadpanned, and blew out the candle before Eames could make another witty retort.


End file.
